


Parapet

by brasspetal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, House of Leaves Inspired, Insomnia, M/M, Mind Games, Slow Burn, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-02-26 21:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18724984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brasspetal/pseuds/brasspetal
Summary: If the trees clack and speak then so does the house. It speaks through the covered mirrors, down the long hallways of bare walls. There is only dust left behind of the paintings that once hung proudly against the carved wood. The disguise is falling away.He told them not to look but they did anyway. They cultivated the tomb.--Loosely inspired by the book 'House of Leaves'





	1. The Estate

**Author's Note:**

> You don't have to read the book "House of Leaves' in order to understand this. I only wanted to write a fic inspired by the original story. 
> 
> I will probably change the rating and add to the tags as the story progresses. I hope you enjoy :)

 

_“This is not for you.”_

 

 

_\--_

If the trees clack and speak then so does the house. It speaks through the covered mirrors, down the long hallways of bare walls. There is only dust left behind of the paintings that once hung proudly against the carved wood. The disguise is falling away.

He told them not to look but they did anyway. They cultivated the tomb.

 

\--

_One Year Earlier_

If one could have good dreams they didn’t happen here. They didn’t ‘happen’ to him. He can’t remember the last time he’s experienced the calmness of daybreak and the promise of day.

Will’s phone buzzes against his nightstand and he reaches for it before opening his eyes.

“Yes?”

The line is garbled at first with a burst of static before Beverly’s voice is heard.

“I’d apologize for the hour but it’s you.”

She knows no one entertains insomnia quite like him but it’s a malady he’s familiar with. He observes the silent ticking hands of his clock that remains in shadow. He’d guess it’s right before sunrise.

“I’ll meet you at the property, “ he replies.

He shoves his blanket aside amidst the tangled sheets and presses his bare feet to the cool hardwood floor.  He has a headache but that’s nothing new. Perhaps it was a form of sleep apnea; yet another force driving his body away from sleep.

Will Graham is masterful at restoration. He can stand in a condemned building which the vines have claimed and see the beauty in potential. The dilapidated forgotten becomes his canvas. He’s never been one to erase the original architecture and he preferred the historic stone walls of a cathedral over a modernized counterpart.

He respects the destruction that nature brings and, in some ways, admires how such a powerful structure can submit to the overgrowth. Every stone wall, every carved staircase, and domed ceiling eventually succumbs.

Beverly vets prospective clients and sends him their way if she senses the project is something he’d find challenging. She’s better at the art of conversation. He’d prefer to remain the silent party in these endeavors.

He buttons up his dark plaid shirt and slides his eyes over the mirror. It’s enough of an effort. He didn’t enjoy staring too long at mirrors. They offered things that make him question himself and reveal the visible mask.

The daylight is offensive to his eyes and he squints as he walks to his car. He prefers days in which the sun remains imprisoned behind the clouds. His neighbors don’t agree, however. They jog and gather around hiking trails with smiles painted on their placid faces. They always wave and he only has a nod to give back. It’s more than enough.

\--

The property he is to visit today is an old estate that’s been unoccupied for some time. He suspects this is something more for paying the bills than for his artistic palette, but he didn’t mind. The wealthy pay well.

The drive takes him through the twisting woods which resemble lonely giants. They are interconnected by their roots and he thinks they’d burst onto the roadway if given enough time. Their leaves appear jagged in the reflection of his car window. It isn’t a welcoming suffocation but not an unwelcome one either. The land seems to be curious about newcomers and it offers pathways which could easily be swallowed up.

The rain is soft and blankets against the mist. The wind has a sorrowful muffled howl that only seems to exist in this place. He suspects if he were to leave the woods, then the rain, mist, and wind would disappear along with the eyeless crowded trees.

There is something off here as if the sky is a little crooked and must be corrected like a picture frame. It sets him on edge and as the five hours bring the light to a late afternoon, he feels spent.

There is no grand gate to enter. The property is accessible along a wooded road that curves like the land’s spine. It’s oddly without much security but the trees crowd even closer together until it is hard to see the light blinking between them.

He spots the mansion in a clearing as if it’s a natural part of the woods too. The driveway is long like the maw of the forest. The house itself is large but not towering. It still leaves a shadow over the land though and it is a misshapen mass along the overgrown lawn.

Beverly’s small blue car is at the front next to a sleek silver one that eats up all the light. He parks far enough away so that he can take in the estate as he walks up the remaining drive.

The roof is pointed and almost steepled. There are long rectangle windows set into the strange stone walls of the house. From afar at a glance the house looks like a passably normal large home but standing at the foot of the shadow it casts, Will recognizes the feeling of being watched. Not by any one entity but the house itself.

He presents himself as passive and unobtrusive with his quiet steps to the front door as if he must ask permission to glimpse its inner workings.  

The windows are worn and the glass appears dusty from the outside. The eyes of this isolated shelter seem closed in hibernation.  He lifts his hand to grab the rusted nondescript knocker but before he can, the large dark door opens.

In front of him stands a woman with blonde hair to her shoulders wearing a crimson jacket that emphasizes her porcelain skin. Her black heels click on the cobblestone like muffled ticking.

Her eyes encapsulate his and she holds a small smile that doesn’t register with the rest of her expression. She looks as though she could reach into his head without consent and crawl around his skull.

“Will, this is Bedelia Du Maurier. The owner of this estate.” Beverly’s voice snaps him from his thoughts as she steps into the doorway of the house looking between the two of them.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Graham, “ She says and that odd smile remains on her lips.

The way she moves seems unnatural, almost inhuman but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it.

“Yes, Beverly says you wish for the property to be restored in its entirety?” Will’s question hangs there on an invisible hook in silence until Bedelia decides to pluck it away.

“You’ll be staying here for the duration. I have a room set up for you on the second floor. You will be compensated well and all I ask is that this takes precedence over all other projects.”

It’s a tall order but he suspects the pay will be more than enough. His discomfort would have to evolve into something workable.

Will nods without a word and Bedelia gestures for him to step inside. Beverly moves up beside him and quietly says, “there’s coffee in the kitchen.”

Bedelia motions for them to follow with the turn of her heel and Will catalogs the foyer. There’s an oddly shaped half spiral of a staircase that leads to the second floor and there are empty cobwebbed shelves built into it. The floor is dark marble that echoes the sounds of their entrance.

He should be happy this is a simple job but he feels like he’s lying to himself and he isn’t quite sure how yet.

The next room is the kitchen which is large and open with dark wooden cabinets. There’s an island made of polished stone that resembles an artifact in a museum more than a place to prepare food.

He senses it almost immediately. A cavern of dread has formed here, only unlike fog, it reaches into cabinets and sticks there as if hiding. He’s never felt such a pressure before in his lungs as if he’s underwater.

“Here are some rough plans and a schedule. I understand you operate on your own time, Mr. Graham. I am simply aiding you along, “ Bedelia is quick to add, “I will also provide whoever you may need to help complete this project. My contact information is inside the folder.”

Will rests his palm on the dark slick cover before opening it. Inside are detailed drawings and measurements of each of the rooms. He flips through the pages casually studying the professional typeset.

“You might find you have to remeasure often. I must ask that you do it at least twice a day.”

Her request is an odd one and he could give her a false conclusion that pertains to neuroticism but something else deep beyond what is comprehensible tells him that there is more to it.

“Why?” He asks and she purses her lips before setting a clean coffee cup beside the expensive coffee maker.

“I picked you not only for your professionalism but for your apathy towards historic curiosity. Do you understand?”

She didn’t wish for him to ask questions. There is something dark held here beneath the tick-tock of her heeled shoes but its clearly not something she wishes to share.

Truthfully, it wasn’t his business but for the first time in years, he wishes to know why a place such as this has him suddenly enraptured.

“I accept the terms,” Will announces and Bedelia’s crooked smile appears once more. She points to the coffee mug and says, “please help yourself.”

\--

The room he’ll be staying in is small and at the end of a very large hallway. Within the hallway are empty oval-shaped dust marks where he suspects mirrors hung. Even though the décor is gone he still feels as though a phantom of their reflection remains. He avoids looking too long.

His room is set up comfortably with a small bed, an empty desk and a nightstand with an old clock that’s stopped at a quarter to one.

“Is this sufficient?” Bedelia asks and he eyes her draped in shadow by the window.

“It’s fine.”

She opens the curtains revealing the blurry disconnect to the outside world. It’s as if they are looking out from the inside of a mirror.

Beverly studies the stopped antique clock and swipes the dust off with her finger.

“This house is unusual, Mr. Graham. It was built with a purpose in mind. If you can keep my confidence then I think your talents will be invaluable. There are papers for you to sign within the folder I’ve provided.”

He glances down at the folder in his hands, having forgotten he was still carrying it around. It feels heavy in his fingers as if he’s holding an anchor that’s risen from the sea. A pen also awaits him on the desk that he didn’t observe before.

The light in the room shifts and the evening has already begun. Bedelia blends into the shadow as if she could disappear like a specter but instead, she leaves the room without further conversation.

“What do you think?” Beverly whispers as if the house could hear them.

“It’s…odd but I find it interesting.”

Beverly taps the clock beside his new bed and he notices that she fixed it. It’s ticking away again at the correct time.

\--

Will isn’t much for superstition and he’s not given to whim but beneath the recesses of wood where the soil rests, something stirs. It’s a dark whisper of a name.

He thinks of its shape without knowing the word as he drives back home to pack his things. He can hear the clacking branches like bones and he wants to close his eyes but he doesn’t understand the impulse.

If he was a superstitious man then perhaps he would have declined the offer to such a place but as much as he hates to admit it, he’s enthralled by a shadow. That misshapen shadow that loomed large over him when he first stood on the property.

When he reaches his house in the dead of night he doesn’t sleep or even entertain the idea. He sits in front of the glowing screen of his laptop which illuminates the dark. He searches all that he can on the estate and finds absolutely nothing. There is no note of its existence or any tragedy that befell its walls. It is as if it didn't even exist and he wonders madly if when he goes back tomorrow he will simply find a field of black pine in its stead.


	2. The Door

“Ms. Katz…can you repeat what you said?”

The detective stops pacing the room and leans on the metal chair in front of her. Beverly follows the tiny cracks in the table. _It’s_ there beneath the cracks, beneath every crevice.

“There was a man,” she repeats and she knows it isn’t a fitting description but there aren’t words to describe what _it_ was.

“A man inside the house? A drifter?” The detective asks and Beverly rests her hand over the visible cracks.

“No, he came from the house.”

“He lived there?”

“Not exactly..”

The detective sighs in irritation and continues, “how did he get there?”

“He’s always been there. The house isn’t a house.”

He squints at her and shifts his weight as he repeats, “the house isn’t a house?”

“Look, I know how this sounds but It may look like a house, feel like a house but it isn’t a house.”

“Let’s go back to the disappearances, shall we?”

Beverly looks at him as she bunches her hands in fists to stop them from shaking, “it’s a disguise.”

\--

_One Year Earlier_

The downpour of rain is muffled in the background as Will stands staring at the two suitcases waiting at the front door. It’s dark in his little house and the grayness of the day seeps inside, making everything appear black and white.

It was time for him to leave for the estate but somehow his mind had already drifted there while he slept. He shakes the disconcerting feeling away and grabs the handles of the suitcases. The shadow of his front door is darkened enough to appear open as if it leads to a pitch dark void. His mind attempts to provide reasons to stay but he pushes the doorknob revealing the small amount of light. The sound of rain comes rushing in and breaks apart his fears.  The world outside existed.

He’s quickly soaked by the downpour as he packs his things in the trunk of his car. His neighborhood is wetly blurred and the tall bushes look like figures standing guard. He doesn’t remember his neighbor having a front garden but he chalks it up to never paying it much mind.

The white noise of the rain is abruptly muffled when he shuts the car door against it. He flips his windshield wipers on and they create a monotonous rhythm the entire drive there.

He doesn’t remember dreaming last night but there’s a feeling that lingers despite forgetting. It gathers like the rain enveloping his car. He runs his hand over his face and through his damp hair to quell it. It is an odd feeling to know there is something there beyond the periphery even if he’s unable to see its full shape.

The drive seems shorter than before, he blinks and miles go by. It’s a surreal way of realizing the vanishing of minutes.

The rain doesn’t lessen as he follows the path through the woods. The trees seem closer to the road as if they collectively moved overnight; inch by inch. The windshield wipers continuously reveal the blurred branches and he keeps his eyes focused on the road ahead of him.

The house is still there. It didn’t crawl underground or vanish. It was real and waiting.

This time his car is the only one in the driveway. Beverly isn’t coming today and Bedelia gave him the keys. He has the house to himself until he invites the contractors inside to start the restoration project.

He remains in his car for a moment watching the rain blur the house through his windshield and the wipers refocus the image again. He can’t displace the dread until he knows why its there. The curiosity is something he signed away but he can’t control his instincts.

He sighs quietly and opens the door out into the rain.

\--

Once inside the house he blanches when he shuts the front door and all sound is simply gone. The rain outside is barely audible against the covered windows. He rests the suitcases against the wall in the foyer and sets to work on moving the dusty curtains away from the window. He wants the natural dreary light inside to give him a sense that he isn’t trapped.

Dust accumulates from the effort and dances in the dim light. The strange staircase that he takes up to his room feels as though it could bend beneath his palm. He feels unprepared for the task ahead which should be absurd because he’s worked on more complex projects…or has he?

The door to his room is partially shut and all he has to do is push it for it to creak wide. It hasn’t changed since the last time he was in it and he takes comfort in that. The small room is more than enough. He preferred small spaces.

He opens the curtains in the room, letting the light in and sits on the bed resting below the window. He needs to get a feel of the house. He needs to form a connection to shake this discomfort away.

He closes his eyes and thinks of a clock ticking. The monotonous pendulum swinging to center his thoughts and tries to envision a brighter version of this place. He places light in spaces where dark corners lurk in his mind. He imagines the old wood restored and alive like the tree it came from.

If it were any other house he imagines it would be a guest of the forest that surrounds it but with this one, he believes it’s the opposite. It is as if it has been here longer.

He stands and sets his palm on the bare wall. It is silent, closed off. He’s still a stranger to the property. Trust takes time but he isn’t sure how to earn that trust. He’s afraid to analyze that notion too closely.

Walking down the hallways which are the arteries of the house he finds the silence almost absolute. The kind of silence he’s yet to experience. The kind that his ears ring to make up for the lack of knowledge.

It’s when he’s surveying one of the sitting rooms that he notices a door at the far end of the peeling wall that isn’t in the blueprints that he’s been provided. He glances down at the crisp folder with the dimensions and then to the unmapped door.

He squints in disbelief and sets the folder down on one of the empty shelves. The door is a darker shade of wood than all the rest. He reaches forward and attempts to open it but the knob is stuck. It appears to be locked and there is no way of unlocking it from his side.

As absurd as it is, he’s tempted to knock but he refrains. Instead, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls Beverly.

It rings three times and then, “how’s the spooky house?”

“I need you to contact Bedelia for me.”

Will hesitates when he hears a creak of bending wood coming from the main staircase.

“Everything okay?”

“There’s a door that isn’t in the prints and its locked,” he replies and he shakes his head as if to rid himself of the unease.  All is silent once more.  

“Hm..that’s strange. I told her you’d need everything. I’ll call her, Will. You doing okay?”

She sounds fuzzy as if she’s underwater and the call clicks out twice.

“I’m fine…”

“You sound---” A burst of static erupts and he moves the phone away from his ear as the call cuts out.

There’s no service.

He huffs softly and looks back at the unmapped door. The room grows darker as the sun is covered entirely by a raincloud. He imagines it opening in front of him to an unmapped room made of dark. The thought should terrify him, but there’s a part of him that is far too curious to succumb completely to terror.

He leaves the room before his imagination gets the better of him and stands at the foot of the stairs. There is no noise, no creaking, not even the pattering of rain any longer. The hallway upstairs is melted into shadow.

\--

Lying in a strange bed, in a strange house presents him with the inability to feel tired. He grabs a book from his bag and tries to read by lamplight. The words congregate but he can’t concentrate. He thinks of the door in the darkness downstairs. His book becomes something to hold to keep him in the present.

When he does begin to drift off into sleep he dreams of eyes blinking in the pitch and water filling up the floor as it rolls over his feet. Its freezing like ice and he can’t move. He lets himself be covered until he’s beneath the water. He sinks like a stone towards skeletons buried in the soil.

He doesn’t drown, he simply exists in this strange space where a clock ticks faster below him.

“Are you the eater of time?” He asks within his mind, unable to voice it.

He doesn’t know who he’s speaking to but there’s no answer yet, just a door. There’s a door at the bottom and he swims towards the knob to force it open. It buckles under the pressure making an unpleasant cracking noise before it bursts forth as he rushes in with the water.

He wakes suddenly hitting the floor of his room, having fallen off of the bed. He’s soaked in sweat and for an incoherent moment, he feels the ground around him to make sure the dream wasn’t real.

He sits up and rests his back against the bed as he slows his breathing. His hair is a damp mess and he runs his fingers through it to brush it away from his forehead. He glances at the clock beside his bed and it tells him it’s 2 AM.

He feels like a sponge that still retains water and is unable to ring himself out from the feeling of it. There’s nothing but silence to greet him and the image of the door in the sitting room lingering in the back of his unfocused mind.

He stands up in but a t-shirt and his boxers and steps out into the dark hallway. He flips the lights on and he squints from the brightness as his bare feet follow hardwood floor to the stairs.

He’s on auto-pilot as if in a trance of his own making until he finally reaches the sitting room. He wonders if he should knock. He nearly laughs at himself but the hint of a smile immediately vanishes from his face.

The door is gone as if it was never there. He shakes his head in disbelief and catalogs the rest of the room with his eyes. Nothing else has changed.

He didn’t think the insomnia had been burdensome enough to give him hallucinations but he seriously considers his sanity while looking at the blank wall in front of him. He touches the wallpaper where he remembers it but nothing gives him any indication that there ever was a door.

A shrill familiar ring collapses the silence and startles him enough to stare wide-eyed at the offending phone. His phone.

He didn’t remember bringing it down with him and yet there it was on the bookshelf continuously ringing loudly at 2 AM.

He walks over to it and grabs it from the dust to see Bedelia’s name on the screen. How did she know he was awake?

He sets it to his ear as his hand slightly shakes from the interrupted silence.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Graham, how are you settling in?”

He looks at the clock on his phone once more before setting it to his ear again to make sure time didn’t suddenly lapse but it didn’t.

“I’m fine…it’s two in the morning.”

“Yes, I am aware but you weren’t sleeping were you?”

The tone of her voice is practiced without a hint of tiredness. He wonders if she ever sleeps.

“I wasn’t, no. Is there anything you needed?” He attempts to sound amenable.

“I wanted you to be made aware that you are not the only one residing in the house.”

Her words are like a note suddenly played off key. He glances behind him as if a presence would present itself but it doesn’t.

“What…do you mean exactly? I don’t understand.”

“It wasn’t up to be me to tell you. It was up to him but now that I can relay it, I thought you should be made aware.”

“Made aware? Where is..he staying?” Will feels exposed and the occupied dread begins to make sense.

“I’m sure he’ll be making proper introductions soon but until then there is nothing to worry over and I do hope you get more rest, Mr. Graham.”

The line disconnects and he stares down at his phone in his hand in confused fear.

There is still no sound to be heard in the house, not a creak of a board or the ticking of a clock. It is eerily still.

He makes his way quickly back up the stairs to his room where he promptly locks the knob on his door. He doesn’t understand why she kept this from him. He would have been fine sharing a space but the not knowing is what sets him on edge.

He tells himself that packing his things and leaving the next morning would be the logical approach but he doesn’t. He simply lies down in his bed and stares at the shadows made by the lamplight.

After fighting with himself to stay awake, the silence of the house lulls him to sleep with a whisper of breath and dust.

\--

When he wakes it’s with the slow realization that someone else is there, not in his room but in the house.

He begins to smell eggs cooking and brewed coffee as he sits up quick. He glares at his locked door. Nothing has changed in his room except the light patterns which give way to dawn.

He throws a pair of pants on and moves silently barefoot out into the hallway. He can hear something sizzling in the kitchen downstairs as if the sound is right beside his ear.

It has to be the occupant that Bedelia told him about and while his fear remains a thrumming mess he descends the stairs.

The house seems different. It’s brighter and more at ease. He isn’t sure if that terrifies him more. The curtains are open and the early sunlight glistens off the wrecked chandelier that rests in the corner.

He peers into the doorway hesitantly and sees a tall lithe man with his back to him casually cooking in the kitchen. He’s chopping something and the pattern reminds Will of the ticking again. It is as if time creates itself here without constraint.

Before Will can make introductions, the man speaks instead, “I do apologize for the miscommunication. I thought breakfast would do.”

As he finishes his sentence he rests the knife gracefully on the cutting board and turns to face him as his eyes find Will’s immediately.

He appears welcoming but something stirs beneath the workings of the house like the skittering of spiders. It reaches up through the floorboards and rests heavy against Will’s shoulders.

He’s waiting patiently for Will to respond and his dark eyes betray nothing.

“I didn’t realize anyone lived here still.” It’s all Will can muster.

The man smiles slightly and turns back to chopping.

“You’re Will Graham the restorationist.” He introduces Will to the room. He blinks and feels a little out of practice with proper introductions.

“And you are?”

The chopping continues and he blinks against the pendulum swinging in the back of his mind. The light dims shyly from the kitchen window and with one final chop, “Need not worry yourself with proper etiquette. Nothing is required except what you offer.”

He doesn’t speak his name and yet Will knows the shape of it as if he’s been given the outline of a blueprint. There’s an understanding that slips between them to rest in the foundation and where the man stands he’s sees the invisible outline of the illusory door.


	3. Permanence

Will is accustomed to discontent and he learned to identify with the absence of something rather than condemning what isn’t there. Perhaps it was fatal to love something temporary but there is permanence in restoring what’s already beneath the surface.

The shape of light changes in the empty dining hall. It gives the shadows on the ceiling jagged edges. He imagines the room holding a feast but the memory is simply an outline of thought. Behind the illusion, there is cobb webbed silence.

The peculiar man he met earlier in the kitchen took his leave a short time ago without giving much away except his name. That name rests heavy on his tongue but he doesn’t speak it aloud yet. Speaking a name gives it power and he’s never been good at giving up trust.

He doesn’t quite understand where the man lives in the house. He has the blueprints and has given each corner a cursory once over. There’s been no sign of this place feeling lived in except the kitchen.

Will places those thoughts strategically at the back of his mind. He spends the afternoon at his desk in his room drawing up plans and going over blueprints. He wants to bring light to every corner but he isn’t sure the house itself would accept it or reject the change. He wished to give it penance. Maybe he’s being presumptuous with this decision.

That night with the twisting of covers Will experiences an odd violation of space. It’s a reaction of dread when Will tosses and turns to face the far wall from his bed.

He remains stalk-still beneath the blankets and his eyes widen in the dark.

There is a plain white door with a glass knob that wasn’t there when he went to bed. It’s as if it is standing there, silent, like an entity.

He pushes himself up from the bed slowly as if he could provoke it and reaches shakily for the cord to switch his light on.

The door doesn’t disappear beneath the scrutiny of the false light. It remains resolute as if to challenge him.

“Hello?”

His voice is loud in the quiet and it may seem absurd but he didn’t know what else to do.

There is no answer. The walls don’t speak and yet he senses a message.

He stands from his bed and rests his bare feet on the floor with barely a breath. The approach lasts mere seconds and yet it feels like he’s walking in water. There is a push and pull to the atmosphere but it allows him to give it company.

He’s standing in front of the pristine door and he rests his hand softly on the cold glass knob. It feels as though he is holding hands with a skeleton and when he turns the knob it rewards him with opening.

The air is stale behind the white door and it reveals a small square room. There are no windows, no outlets or switches and, no light.  The walls are pure black and smooth. There is no design to them and it resembles the shell of a walk-in closet.

It invites him in with silence but he doesn’t accept. He merely remains standing in the doorway between spaces.

He doesn’t feel as though he’s lost his mind and he’s oddly calm although disturbed. He doesn’t know how else to describe it but he doesn’t shy away from its existence.

A distant bell in his mind reminds him that he could pack up his things and leave but he doesn’t. Perhaps he will regret this decision but something reminds him that it was already decided once the house took notice of him.

He shuts the door to the dark unmapped room and studies it until morning light. It doesn’t disappear like he thought it would. The new addition remains and he wonders if his definition of permanence and illusion have always been wrong.

He grabs his phone and types _‘something’s off’_ into a text to Beverly but doesn’t send it. It could mean anything. It could mean that something is off with him, which he isn’t opposed to acknowledging or something is wrong with this house. He stares at the words until they become foreign to him and then he promptly deletes it.

The white door remains and the whimsical quality of the house fades into something nameless. Will finds himself correcting his feelings on his surroundings. He had it wrong. This place is not a passing mystery to solve. Those notions have gone and something else remained in its place. Something Will is unable to recognize or add definition to. It is something primordial and it knows nothing of whim.

\--

Will’s plan sketched out on a white piece of paper sits in the center of the dining hall. The room is like a vessel of something long gone. He tries to connect to the history and all he can hear is the man’s voice from earlier repeating incoherent words into the air.

This time he does text Beverly and asks her to get Bedelia to reveal a little about the history of this place. He needs to study it and empathize with what it once carried inside it.

He lies down in the center of the room on top of his draft and looks straight up into the vaulted ceiling as if he’s looking into a pair of eyes.

“I’m here to learn,” he says softly.

There’s a quiet sound of a book shutting in another room but he doesn’t investigate. He listens which is what he should have been doing in the first place.

That voice that’s been swimming in his head presents itself from the entry door, “What do you wish to absorb, Will?”

He didn’t get up or greet the man but the room’s light doesn’t falter or darken.

“I need to know it.”

Will’s words flit around him until the barrier of silence is lifted once again. “Come with me.”

“Dr. Lecter…” Will begins and is interrupted, “No barriers, Will. _‘Hannibal’_ is more appropriate.”

His presence fades from the room and Will sits up to look in the direction of where Hannibal’s voice still lilts and falls. He stands and walks from the vessel into the sunroom that leads to the back overgrown terrace. Hannibal is standing at the window overlooking the destruction by nature.

Will has the chance to study him as he makes his way beside him. Hannibal looked every bit like he climbed out of a painting in a hallway and lived out of the definition of time. He can’t quite process him and he doesn’t understand how he could grow used to the shadow of this man more than the man himself.

“This is the history, Will. It is here in the black pine breeding ivy. What do you see?”

He glances at Will and then back to the large garden. Will thinks of stretched wood to frame against the soil.

“While the abstract may be appealing, I’m here for the concrete. I need to know the history. Who lived here? What were they like? How did they relate to you?”

“What do you see?” Hannibal repeats as if he didn’t hear him.

Will sighs and slides his eyes over the wilderness eating wood.

“A lie,” Will lets it tumble from his mouth.

“Not the fallacy, Will. Beyond it,” Hannibal corrects.

The scenery blurs in front of him and he thinks of illusion and what’s deserved.

“Permanence.”

Hannibal is quiet but there is a confident rise in his shoulders and he could read that the answer is close to what he wished to hear.

“There’s patience in permanence beyond which we can understand.”

Hannibal’s words take on an edge of fondness. He was proud of the overgrowth even if it was devouring his home. Maybe that is precisely why.

“Who built this place?” Will attempts to ask and Hannibal’s wistful observation of the terrace begins to fade.

“Why does one build a maze?”

Hannibal turns to Will giving him his full attention and Will nearly blanches from the scrutiny of it.

“To trap.”

Will’s heart hammers but he keeps his eyes on Hannibal’s. He’s reminded of the challenge of the glass knobbed door.

“Make sure you have a ball of yarn, Will. To find your way out of the dark.”

Hannibal’s voice echoes and then remains even as he leaves the room. Will is tempted to follow him but he doesn’t believe he’s ready and he’s not sure what that means.

He turns back to the terrace and cradles the image of natural destruction in his mind.

\--

The light is an invading force that spills in through the cracks. It isn’t slow and methodical because the dark has permanence and the light does not.

He thinks of his plan for the restoration project while he sits in his room once again. The white door still remains as if it’s a watchtower.

He scraps a few of the pages into the small trash bin beneath his desk and he thinks of the invasion of light. This place doesn’t crave more light. He needs to think of a way to harness the natural pitch it is akin to.

He was wrong before. This place would simply devour the daylight.

He scribbles in the darkness between the arches he drew and his pencil snaps from the force of it. He lets it roll aside and he takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes and thinks he hears the stretching and crunching of vines. He thinks of a red ball of yarn resting in the palm of his hand and when he opens his eyes again the entire draft page is scribbled in deep blackness. He doesn’t remember doing it but when he looks in trash bin those pages are also scribbled black.

He stands from the desk nearly toppling the chair and sits down shakily on his bed. His eyes find the white door as he slowly lies down to face it. It doesn’t give away its design. It simply exists and Will watches it until his eyes burn. He’s giving too much of himself away but he doesn’t know how to plug the leak.

When exhaustion finally claims him, he tries to not to think of scribbled pages and thinks of the yarn instead. He thinks of a tether. Could he trust the source of the tether? The red of the yarn is burned black invading the frayed end he holds.

He wakes to the sound of a snapping twig. He blinks blurrily towards the door and notices that it isn’t shut anymore. It is wide open into darkness.

He sits up quickly not quite aware but enough to feel the creeping terror. There is no sound and he thinks he sees a shape in the dark, a familiar shape of the man, of Hannibal but it vanishes.

Had he opened the door?

He doesn’t call out to it this time. He stumbles with his attempt to shake off the little sleep he received. This time he stands from his bed and walks towards it. He could flee the room but something tells him he wouldn’t get very far. The house has something to say.

He stands in the pitch black doorway and looks inside to the nothingness.

“I don’t understand.”

Will says aloud and there’s a small sound of a door unlocking from further in the room. There’s barely enough moonlight to see his own feet as he reaches in front of him like a madman and walks forward.

The room is the same size as he remembered it. The size of a closet and he reaches the other door at the end easily. His hand rests against the round knob and he twists clicking and dragging it open with the sound of splintering wood.

The twig snaps again against his ear and suddenly he’s surrounded by blinding brightness. It is as if someone flipped a switch on and the world flipped. He squints against it and holds his hand up to block the source which he soon realizes is the sun. He’s outside in the daylight.

He steps back startled and then he hears, “Will…can you hear me?”

He swivels around quickly towards Beverly who is standing in the front yard of the house with a group of construction workers. They are watching with wary expressions aimed at him.

He looks down at his shaking hands and realizes he’s in his boxers and a plain white t-shirt from when he went to bed.

“Will…” Beverly tries again and approaches him slowly.

“Wh-y are you here?” Will manages and Beverly tilts her head at him.

How did he end up out here? It was night a moment ago. He feels clawed at and raw as if he’s dragged himself through rocky sand.

 “You sent me a draft and Bedelia wanted to get started.”

Will shakes his head at her and squints, “A draft? I didn’t send you a draft.”

“I received one two days ago on the 3rd. You emailed me,” Beverly answers and Will feels cut loose as if his tether has snapped.

“The 3rd?”

He knows he sounds insane but the 3rd was the same night he went to bed and found the door open.

“Yes. Are you okay?”

“I don’t understand….two days?” Will asks and he knows it’s futile.

Two days have passed since he’s stepped into the darkness of that door and he has no recollection of sending Beverly a draft of any kind.

Before she could question him further he walks back towards the maw of a house in his bare feet disorientated and terrified.

His feet leave smudges of dirt on the floor in a trail but he doesn’t pay it much mind. He heads upstairs to his room where he flings open his door and stands in front of his bed.

The white door is gone and there is nothing but a blank wall resting in its place. As he blinks he swears he can see the outline of it as if it is burned into his vision.

On his desk in a neat pile are drawings of the foyer. The scribbled blackened pages are gone and beside the drawings is a note written in eloquent cursive.

_Will,_

_I found your drawings on the terrace. I was afraid they would be abducted by the wind. Do be careful next time. The ivy may claim it._

_Hannibal_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying it :) I look forward to delving deeper into the confines of the 'house'.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Thank you for reading. 
> 
> I'm @brassfannibal on twitter.


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